The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (41 page)

Pilate nodded and carefully sat up, swinging his injured leg over the side of the bed but careful not to allow it to touch the ground. “What about the remaining two Zealot lieutenants?” he asked.

“We crucified them this morning,” Longinus said. “They are hanging outside the gates, near where we nailed the others up—the last one of them died yesterday morning, and I ordered them all cut down because they were beginning to stink.”

Pilate gritted his teeth. “I want you to help me stand and get dressed,” he said. “It's been a week since I was hurt, and I want to see those barbarians on their crosses. There is a crutch in the corner—Aristarchus brought it for me yesterday, and said I could try it when I was ready.”

With great difficulty, he donned his uniform and cloak, omitting only the boot that would have gone on his injured foot. With the help of Longinus and his sturdy cedar wood crutch, he made his way down to the courtyard. The legionaries cheered when they saw their commander on his feet again. He acknowledged their support with a wave and a nod, and stumped his way toward the city gate. His leg was throbbing already, but his face was a stoic mask. He acknowledged the greetings of Caesarea's loyal citizens with a curt nod, and finally came to a halt in front of two fresh crosses.

The men who hung there, heads lolling, did not notice him at first. One of them finally regarded him with a vacant stare, but the other managed to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth. “Think you've won, Roman pig?” he asked in a voice thick with blood and exhaustion. “Bar Abbas lives, and as long as he lives, loyal sons of Israel will rally to his cause! You will never subdue our homeland!”

Pilate looked at him with scorn. “When I am where you are, and you stand before my cross, you can gloat, you simpleton!” he snapped. “Your beloved master bandit will hang on a cross next to you soon enough. He is hiding like a cornered rat in a barn full of cats. Your insurrection is over.” He turned and started to limp away.

“Too bad it's left you a cripple,” shouted the man on the cross. “A crippled leg for a crippled soul!”

A thin haze of red covered Pilate's vision, and the beast within him, which had been in a pain-numbed sleep, woke up and howled for blood. He kept his voice very calm as he walked up to the legionary who was standing his post at the city gate. “Bring me a bow, please,” he said.

Longinus looked at him with concern. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “And are you sure you can do it?”

“Shut up and hold me upright!” snapped Pilate. Moments later the bow was in his hand, and Longinus propped him up as he took careful aim and skewered the mocking bandit's knee with an arrow. The man's cursing imprecations disappeared in a howl of pain.

“That was for my knee,” said Pilate. He drew a second arrow from the quiver, sighted the bow again, and sent a second arrow through the man's other knee. The
sicarii'
s voice hit a new octave of pain. “And that,” said Pilate, “was because I felt like it.”

The man looked at the Roman prefect, moaning in agony. Pilate nearly forgot his own pain as he watched his enemy suffer. Finally the bandit captain spoke, his voice trembling. “Kill me,” he begged. “Kill me, you Roman bastard!”

Pilate gave him a sweet smile. “No,” he replied, and limped back through the city gates.

Pilate never really remembered how he got back up to his bed afterwards. He knew he had pushed himself too far, and when he forgot, his leg reminded him. He stayed in bed all that day; and for the week after that Pilate contented himself with moving from his bedchamber to his office, and occasionally to the dining room. The pain was ferocious whenever he tried to put any weight on the leg, and after the first week, Aristarchus refused to give him any more of the painkilling poppy milk.

“It is a powerful drug, Prefect, and I have seen too many become addicted to its effects,” he explained.

Pilate nodded in agreement, but the pain was still unbearable at times. He found himself drinking more than he ever had before. His body proved tough and resilient, and gradually the torn tissues knitted back together. By the end of a month he could put a little bit of weight on the leg, and graduated from a crutch to a cane. His wife's constant support helped his recovery, but over time the frustration at his limited mobility became a greater source of stress than the pain itself. Simply put, Pilate was not used to being hobbled, and it angered him.

His soldiers quickly learned that the spare, muscular figure limping about Caesarea on a cane had less tolerance for failure than ever before, or else they paid the price in docked pay and corporal punishment. They still respected Pilate, but many of them began to lose the affection they had developed for him. Only the veterans and officers, who understood his frustration, still treated him as the commander that they had learned to admire over the last few years.

A couple of months after his injury, Pilate received a letter from the Emperor. Tiberius' handwriting was shakier than ever, but his tone was friendlier than it had been since Pilate was banished to Judea. It read:

Gaius Julius Tiberius Caesar, Princeps and Imperator, to Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea; greetings!

I am sorry to hear of your injury, and hope that your recovery is quick and complete. One thing a life on the battlefield has taught me is that no part of the human body seems capable of generating as much pain as the knee joint. I have seen grown men, strong and brave warriors, scream like little girls from the sort of injury you describe.

On the other hand, I am glad to see that the Zealot forces have been trounced once again, thanks to your leadership. I am sorry their leader Bar Abbas eluded you, but I have no doubt you will bring him to justice soon enough. Perhaps the gods have allowed you to suffer this hurt as a warning that you are past the age when you should lead from the front! You are as brave a soldier as I have ever commanded, but you have proven all you can as far as physical courage goes. Don't continue to risk yourself after this!

I miss your competent leadership in Rome. Since arranging the fall of Sejanus, I have begun to purge the Senate of its worst elements. They call me a tyrant and a second Sulla, but the Republic has become a travesty of its former self, and I am determined to set it right again before I die! Cutting off gangrenous members is an odious task for a physician, but sometimes it is the only option in order for the body to heal itself. Although I suppose this might not be an appropriate time to mention the subject of gangrene, eh?

Gaius Caligula is a man now, and I like him less and less as the years go by. I should never have made him my heir, but he is the last of the Julian line except for my grandson Tiberius Gemellus, and Gemellus is still a youth. If I live long enough, perhaps I can dispose of Gaius and elevate Gemellus in my place—but I am not sure I will be spared that long. You tried to warn me, and I was foolish not to listen. Now Agrippina and her other sons are dead, and this youth I thought would be the savior of Rome has grown into a serpent. I should have died a decade ago, when my son might have succeeded me. Longevity is a terrible burden.

I wish I could order you back to Rome, but I fear that the moment I breathed my last, Gaius would have you and your entire family murdered. The only thing that restrains him now is the fear of my ill will, and once I am gone, he will have no brakes at all. May the gods help poor Rome then! In the meantime, Lucius Pontius, keep the peace in Judea and continue to cherish your family. If you can find it in your heart, forgive the sad old man who once called you friend.

Perhaps it was the wine he had drunk that evening, or maybe it was the lingering pain and frustration from his debilitating injury, but when Pilate put that letter down, he put his head in his hands and wept—for himself, for his lost daughter, for his wife's pain, and even for the pitiful old man who ruled the known world. He found himself hoping that his own end would come swiftly and before his body had begun to wear out. At forty-seven, he wondered how many years he would have before he began to fail physically. Ten? Fifteen? Much would depend on how completely he was able to recover from his wound, he realized. With that in mind, he levered himself up and began climbing up and down the stairs, relying on his cane as little as possible. His healing joint screamed in outrage, but he kept it up until he was soaked in sweat and could not lift his leg up one more time. Then he collapsed onto a couch and fell asleep in his office.

Little Decimus did not exactly understand why his
tata
had become so grumpy, but he did quickly pick up on the idea that it was no longer a good idea to climb into Pilate's lap. Still, he ran around the family's living quarters and his father's office, destroying crockery with cheerful indifference, and generally provoking smiles and groans in his wake. Pilate found that he was incapable of remaining angry at the toddler, even when the boy bumped his injured leg.

Meanwhile, Cassius Longinus had returned his family to Capernaum, since the Zealot threat was greatly reduced. With Pilate's permission, he had stayed there for a couple of weeks before returning to Caesarea to escort Pilate and his cohorts to Jerusalem for the autumn festivals. He had been away from Caesarea for a couple of weeks when Pilate got a letter from the centurion that caught him by surprise.

Gaius Cassius Longinus to Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate:

In the wake of recent events, I have been remiss in not reporting on the activities of Jesus of Nazareth. However, what happened yesterday was remarkable enough that I feel I have to share it with you. I know your skepticism well by now, but if you have a rational explanation for this, I would really like to hear it when I get back!

We had only been in Capernaum for a day when my servant Stychius began to run a fever. The sickness grew steadily worse over the next three days, and by the end of the week it was obvious he was dying. His face was gray, his breathing labored, and his lungs rattled with each exhalation.

Stychius was a gift from my father, and served me as my slave for years. Even when I freed him five years ago, he chose to remain with me as a paid servant. We have been in countless battles together, and he has saved my life on more than one occasion. Despite the way our relationship began, he is more of a brother to me than my real brothers ever were. Needless to say, I was deeply distressed at the thought that he might perish.

About that time, one of my men said that Jesus was returning to Capernaum after preaching and healing at Bethsaida and Chorazin. Knowing his reputation as a healer, I decided to ask if he could help Stychius. I set out alone, and by the time I spotted the crowd approaching town, I was running, soaked in sweat and out of breath. Several of the locals knew me, and they helped me push through the ring of supplicants and curiosity seekers that surround Jesus everywhere he goes.

So it was that I found myself speaking to the itinerant from Nazareth for the first time. I addressed him as Rabbi, and explained my servant's plight to him. He looked at me with the most piercing eyes I have ever encountered, and said nothing for a moment.

“Please, rabbi, do this for him,” said my friend Jacob, a rabbi from Capernaum. “He is the one who paid to rebuild our synagogue when the Zealots burned it.” Several other locals who know me also spoke up, urging him to help poor Stychius for my sake. He nodded his assent, and gestured for me to lead him to my home.

I am not sure why I said what I said next, but the words came out of me before I knew what I was saying: “Lord, you do not have to come with me. I am a man under orders, but I also have a hundred men under my command. All I have to do is tell them what I want done, and they do it. If you will speak the word, I believe my servant will be made well.”

Jesus looked at me, and his eyes widened with astonishment—and pure joy. I got the sense that there was enough merriment bottled up inside him to set all of Rome to laughter, were it let loose.

“Did you hear this?” he said in that wonderfully mellow voice. “I tell you, not in all of Israel have I found such faith! Go your way, my friend. Your servant is healed.”

I turned and walked slowly back to Capernaum—realizing as I did so that I must have run several miles in my desperation to find Jesus. When I got back to the house, I found Stychius sitting up and sipping some broth. His color had returned and his breathing was normal. When I asked them at what time he had begun to improve, they told me that the fever had broken an hour ago—which, by my reckoning, was at the moment Jesus told me ‘Your servant is healed.'

What can I say? I have no explanation, except that this man's powers of healing are real. The stories I have heard about him are remarkable, and I had discounted most of them—till now. If he could recall Stychius from the threshold of Hades, I have no doubt that he can cure lepers, give sight to the blind, and do all the other things they say of him. I can imagine your face as you read this, Prefect, but if you had been here, you too would believe.

Pilate put the letter down with a frown. Longinus was so reliable in so many ways that it befuddled him to think that the man could be so gullible when it came to religion. So a man's fever broke when he seemed at death's door? Stranger things happened all the time. It did not mean that a carpenter had suddenly become Apollo incarnate! At least, he thought, this Galilean still showed no sign of urging his followers to revolutionary activity.

A month later, Pilate set out with two cohorts for his fall visit to Jerusalem. Herod was returning to the city for the first time since the death of John the Baptist, and had invited Pilate to stay in his palace again—along with “as many soldiers as you care to bring with you,” the letter said. Pilate smirked—apparently Antipas was not very certain of his welcome in the city! Well, despite Pilate's scorn for him, Herod was a tetrarch appointed by the Roman Senate, so Pilate figured it would not hurt to post a century of legionaries around his palace to keep his plump hide safe.